


The Light from a Burning Building

by SoonerOrLater



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:12:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoonerOrLater/pseuds/SoonerOrLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is raped during a case and the aftermarth unlocks powerful memories and emotions that go a long way to explaining who he is today. As Sherlock begins to self destruct John does his best to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The light from a burning building

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of a planned series in which Sherlock unravels and John helps put him together, and perhaps build something a bit more.

John approached yet another ambulance with a rush of relief as he spotted an orange blanket with a thatch of dark curls growing out of it through the crowd of police and fire engines. Behind him the sky was tinged with an orange glow against the dark as flames still soared from the warehouse. He suppressed a shudder at what might have been, how close they’d come, yet again. He knew Sherlock heard his footsteps, that he’d know it was him as he always did so he was immediately on alert when he didn’t look up-Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the only one with well honed senses, John read people well and he was by now if not fluent then well versed in Sherlock Holmes.  
‘Sherlock?’ he’d anticipated saying the name with relief, but concern was all he heard in his voice.  
There was an agonising pause and John saw the rise and fall of an inhalation before his head began to rise. The look on Sherlock’s face sent ice through his veins.  
He’d seen that look before; he’d worn that look before. It was a look of pure trauma. The haunted look of someone who had lived through nightmares and on Sherlock’s face, the one with eyes that could normally cut through you, set in that in that strange but compelling face, were blank, rendered lifeless by whatever they had witnessed. But there was more to it, not just his admittedly odd features difficult to read at the best of times, but the expression they wore now and those clear eyes that held such assurance reduced not to fear but the emptiness john recognised all too well.  
‘Take me home’ Sherlock commanded, beginning to stand.  
‘No’ John said a firm hand on his shoulder pushing him down.  
‘John I said- ‘ Sherlock couldn’t meet his gaze however and sank back too willingly. A cough from his smoke filled lungs wrecked through his body seeming to shake every part of him.  
‘Hospital’ John said simply, trying not to push so hard the detective was forced to run, ‘No arguments, you’ve got a blanket and lungs full of smoke and God only knows what else.’  
The moment they left his lips John wanted to take back the words, Sherlock visibly froze and another chill went through John. This was bad.  
‘You need a doctor’ John said with enough force to tell Sherlock it wasn’t negotiable, but as gently as he could manage. He had an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his friend to reassure him, but he knew right now that would hurt Sherlock more than it would help, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out why but knew he would have to.  
‘You’ Sherlock said, talking to his lap again as his head dropped.  
‘What?’ John said, unable to make out the word over the chaos around them.  
‘You’ Sherlock repeated, his voice stronger almost its usual authoritative self. He lifted his head and fixed john in his gaze, still hollow and empty. ‘John I need you to be my doctor’  
‘Sherlock I can come with you but’ something shifted in his gaze which hadn’t left John’s eyes and John saw the plea, the need.  
‘Ok.’ He said, ‘Ok I’ll talk to Lestrade, get him to call, pull some strings, minimal fuss.’ He looked around in desperation for the detective, hoping to signal something to him, not wanted to leave Sherlock alone again. He finally spotted the detective on the other side of the car park, after a momentary debate he looked back at Sherlock.  
‘I’ll be right back’ he reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder instinctively, forgetting his earlier deductions, and felt him flinch. His stomach lurched ‘Sher-‘he began  
‘Just hurry John please’ said Sherlock voice clenched and tight like his body, ‘Please so we can go home’  
The ‘we’ lurched John’s stomach again; feeling helpless he raced across the car park ignoring the pain in his leg the earlier fight had caused him.  
Sherlock watched him go and willed him to at once speed up and slow down. He wanted this over so he could go home, perhaps to the oblivion of medicated sleep-prescription or otherwise. At the same time he wished time to stand still so he didn’t have to face what came next.  
He closed his eyes but quickly opened them again against the images and sensations that caused. Not now. He told himself, think of something anything, look at the police officer what can you deduce? But nothing came. The images and sensations played in front to f his open eyes and he shook his head to clear them. He looked down to his shaking hands and was grateful a trip to the hospital would gain him a chemical release from the physical pain. For as long as John could prescribe it that would placate him, black out what he wanted to forget, then once John couldn’t or wouldn’t help him he had other means, John wouldn’t like it he knew but it was necessary. Just as it had been before.  
John was back with a curt nod and a gesture to an unmarked police car, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t travel in either ambulance or police car but relying on his acquiescence in the absence of a taxi. Sherlock nodded and as quickly as his painful injuries allowed moved to the car and sat inside. He was grateful for John’s silent but reassuring presence alongside him and for the officer silent in the driving seat, obviously under instructions from either John or Lestrade. The young officer had obviously received explicit instructions from Lestrade as they soon pulled up not at the nearby Kings hospital but at a small private hospital. Sherlock followed wordlessly, trailing behind John as several professional exchanges were made in hushed tones, he lost his protest over a wheelchair and soon they found themselves in a private room, door shut a nurse outside told she wasn’t needed. John leaned against the door and looked at what he could only describe as a broken Sherlock before him.  
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ he asked  
He nodded. ‘You’ll be tending to my recovery it makes sense that you do the examination, since I know you won’t prescribe painkillers without doing so.’  
For a moment he was the normal Sherlock, normal of course being a relative term. John was tempted to scold him for his concern with prescription drugs that could be attained; certain he was seeing this as a positive result of whatever horrors had befallen him that night. One look again at Sherlock’s forlorn form prevented any levity.  
‘Right. Ok.’ John said decisive, trying his best to slip into doctor mode, do his best to remove himself from the situation. ‘I’ll check you for smoke inhalation first then go over your injuries. You were concussed as well so we’ll need to monitor that.’  
John moved slowly methodically over the table of instruments the nurse had left him. He picked up a stethoscope and turned it over in his hands a few times before turning back to Sherlock. He looked nervous Sherlock noticed, through everything in his mind feeling for his friend.  
‘Can you take your shirt off?’ John asked gently, and Sherlock mused briefly on what a good doctor he was, not just a medical man to deduce causes of death, nor as a soldier to patch up the wounded those as traumatised as he had become, though it seemed Sherlock had brought him closer to that once again than he’d originally intended. He’d somewhere within his selfish need for the doctor’s help and later for his friendship, hoped to save him from whatever traumas he had experience in the war, had hoped to distract him with yes the crimes and horrors of the city. He didn’t intend for him to find himself stitching up comrades once more.  
‘Sherlock?’ John asked breaking into his train of thought.  
‘Yes. Of course’ he answered.  
Sherlock reached for the top button and tried to undo it. He uttered a low curse as his shaking hands refused to comply. He tried again. And again He felt John’s eyes on him and dropped his hands in defeat.  
John looked at him pale and shaking, a hundred or more questions in his mind and a few inclinations now forming that he truly hoped for once weren’t correct. He knew he couldn’t ask, not this, he had to wait to be told. So he stuck to his plan, medical, step by step.  
Sherlock reached his hands up again and attempted the buttons, he managed to grip them this time but his hands shook too much. Silently John stepped into his space and placed a hand gently over Sherlock’s.  
‘May I?’ he asked. Without making eye contact Sherlock nodded and dropped his hands to allow John access. It took all his concentration to not recoil and flinch every moment John’s hands came close to him. He was unsuccessful, as careful as John was not to touch him too much his hand caught his shoulder removing the shirt and he sharply recoiled his skin seeming to have a mind of its own. He chided himself for the foolish notion. With a medical man’s practice and his soldier’s awareness Sherlock was amazed at the swiftness and dexterity John went about finishing removing the shirt and beginning his examination. Before he realised it he had checked his heart and lungs.  
‘Some smoke inhalation but you’ll be fine’ John declared, taking care to keep his tone even for the next part. ‘Injuries.’ He continued. ‘I can see injuries across your chest, blunt trauma possible a wooden plank or a chain by the indentations.’  
‘Chain’ Sherlock supplied in barely a whisper.  
‘Similar abrasions on your back. From the same?’  
Sherlock nodded.  
‘They’re superficial but given your range of movement bruised or fractured ribs, I need to check’  
Sherlock nodded his permission. John went about a swift examination of his ribs, Sherlock hissed in pain when he touched the most sensitive part.  
‘Possible they’re cracked, but as an x ray would take time and the treatment is the same I’d say leave it but you will tell me if the pain gets worse.’ It wasn’t a question. John took a step back and regarded him, pale body scarred with read and darkening blue and purple. The usual strange beauty that Sherlock no doubt held-John even if he’d never admit to it himself saw the admiring glances his friend drew. That combined with his extraordinary mind and character that brilliant mind all seemed now as beaten as his physical form. He may regard his physical form as merely transport but there was no denying the impact the physical was now having on him.  
John took a breath and continued ‘Abrasions to the wrists-handcuffs?’ another nodded, ‘Some minor cuts to the arms-blade?’  
‘Penknife’ Sherlock supplied  
‘And to your face?’  
Sherlock raised a hand and felt the dried blood. He’d forgotten. Then he saw again. ‘A fall, when I...’ he didn’t finish John didn’t press it wasn’t necessary right now. He swiftly went about cleaning and dressing the worst of the wounds. Throughout which Sherlock stared fixedly ahead, eyes blank as though removing himself from the room. It was unnerving to see, the direct antithesis of his usual demeanour-Sherlock often spent hours staring into space while reflecting on a problem but then if you glanced his way, although he wouldn’t see you in his eyes would be the dancing thoughts and deductions crossing his mind his eyes dancing with thought. Even in everyday life his constant observation meant that even the smallest glance was filled with the life that danced behind his eyes. When his eyes locked onto your own-something extraordinary happened, for a moment if it were the right moment the world could stop as you were pulled into his world. And something more, John dared to think, maybe imagine between the two of them when Sherlock’s eyes locked onto his own But not now, he scolded himself, how can you think of that now? When those eyes looked ahead empty, unseeing desperately trying he guessed not to feel. Yes Sherlock he thought you can deduce but I read people, although right now I wish I didn’t see your pain as clearly as you’re trying not to.  
He completed his treatment of the wounds to Sherlock’s body and disposed of the dressing and instruments. He then took a step to the side to he was once again square in front of Sherlock. He paused a moment to see if he would be acknowledged. Sherlock remained removed, blank, only moving to shift his gaze from the wall to the floor.  
‘I can treat all that and give you painkillers and sleeping tablets, you know I’ll look after you until you’re healed. But I need to know, because you asked me to do this and I need to do my job properly and because as your friend I need to know I’ve taken care of you properly. So Sherlock you need to tell me if there is anything else.’  
He met his gaze for the first time since they’d left the fire, he locked his cool eyes onto John’s and John saw the shift from vacant to pain. Sherlock was pleading with him and John asked again with his eyes, please; let me help you he told his friend.  
Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly at their silent conversation.  
‘They raped me’ he whispered. He kept his eyes locked to John’s as he spoke and John felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. The thought had crossed his mind, as his doctor’s brain had kicked in ticking off signals and signs but he’d rejected it. This was Sherlock Holmes, such things didn’t happen to him, ninja warriors and arch enemies yet, but this not-John couldn’t bring him to think the word. He realised he still hadn’t responded. He knew he’d silently conveyed everything that just ran through his mind, but he exhaled, softened his gaze hoped Sherlock got the message, ‘I’m sorry’ if he said it outloud it wouldn’t be enough somehow their silent conversation made it enough for now. There was so much he wanted to say but one look at the forlorn figure in front of him still half naked and exposed from the initial examination head dropped again, bowed in defeat, so uncharacteristic that John immediately knew which approach was needed.  
He cleared his throat in what Sherlock called his doctor way.  
‘Right.’ He said all business again. ‘I will need to examine you then. There will be tests needed just in case’ he paused. ‘That is if you still want me to’  
Sherlock nodded. ‘There’s no one else who could John’ he said softly and in a tone that nearly ripped John’s heart in two.  
‘Right. Ok then’ John faltered a moment and rested a hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder as much steadying himself as attempting reassurance. Sherlock flinched at the initial touch but only slightly, and he met John’s gaze in silent thanks.  
The examination was quick and perfunctory, John abandoning training for gaining information from rape victims, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be questioned like anyone else, why should now be different. Besides which they had their own communication by now, John knew what to ask and how to ask to get what he needed to know. He asked questions that required a yes or a no response, with the perpetrators dead there was no need for evidence to gather, Lestrade would be told but the details omitted from the report. John’s aim then was go gather simply physical wounds and enough to get fair warning of deeper wounds he would be treating in the weeks months or even years to come. These wounds would wait he knew, he couldn’t begin to think how complex a process that would be on so complex a man.  
At the end of the examination John knew it had involved both the male and female, they’d used violence and kept him blindfolded, that there were no serious or life threatening injuries and that he was praying the blood tests he sent would come back clean. He pulled off his gloves and threw them away as Sherlock pulled on his clothes.  
‘I suggest you burn them when we get home’ John commented. John nodded buttoning his shirt slowly; he seemed to be shaking again not his hands, but his whole body slowly building to violent shivers.  
‘Here’ he said pulling off his thick jumper. ‘It’s a bit small but it’ll get you home’  
Sherlock nodded his thanks and pulled the thick cream cable knit jumper over his head, it was small in sleeve and length but John’s stockier frame meant it hung loosely over his torso. It smelled of smoke from the fire but still of John, the rich musky smell that clung to him a combination of expensive aftershave bought by his sister and cheap toiletries he insisted on using. It was heavily masculine with notes of cheap floral, and it smelled of home. He breathed deeply.  
John watched him dress, noting the deeper inhalation as he pulled on the jumper but pretending not to see, even to himself, then nodded curtly.  
‘I’ll have to tell Lestrade. He won’t need to interview you but I have to tell him’  
Sherlock nodded. ‘Mycroft’ he said  
John frowned.  
‘He’ll know’ Sherlock continued, ‘probably knows most of it already, but I need you to get to him first thing tomorrow and tell him to leave me alone.’ Sherlock’s mind was whirring again, back to life for the first time in hours, ‘The last think I need is him bothering me, coming around asking questions, reminding me-I just need him to leave it John’  
The last words tumbled out in frantic urgency.  
‘Alright. Alright.’ John agreed, confused. ‘Not that he listens to a word I say. Just like someone else.’  
He tried to smile, but it came out sad.  
‘Come on. Home.’ John shrugged into his coat and made to leave; Sherlock reached out quickly and grabbed his arm as he passed.  
‘Thank you John’ he said not making eye contact again, John looked down at the hand on his sleeve and covered it briefly with his own, this time Sherlock didn’t flinch, he held on for a moment before dropping his arm and nodding.  
‘Home.’ He repeated.


	2. Everything Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermarth of 'A light from a burning building' opens memories Sherlock would rather leave behind, but John is there to support him.

Part 2  
Everything hurt. That was the only information Sherlock could process as consciousness slowly dawned on him. He opened his eyes. His bedroom. That was good he reasoned, if you must wake up in pain and clearly injured doing so in one’s own room is a good sign. He allowed his brain to wake up, it seemed particularly as he got older injuries or illness took their toll and his mind took longer to engage and reorganised the mass of thoughts that swirled around his head at any given time.   
He did a quick scan of his body to moves things along. Legs fine, arms all moving, definite pain in ribs and head body generally aching specifics not important.   
His hand was sore, wrist defiantly injured he moved it and felt rough woollen material under his hand. Not his jumper. He moved his hand again taking in the cable knit pattern so familiar. John’s jumper.   
The like a file opening he remembered. Every detail in a flash.   
He sat bolt upright gasping for air and grimacing in pain. Suddenly two strong hands were on his should and before he had time to flinch of attack a voice cut through the haze of pain and memories.  
‘Easy. Easy Sherlock I’ve e got you. ‘  
The room swam into focus, or more accurately John did. Steady hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, eyes level with his fixing him in his gaze.   
‘Alright?’ he asked.  
Sherlock nodded breathlessly and John nodded releasing him and sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.   
Sherlock breathed heavily for a few moments and ran a hand through his hair. It caught on dried blood and he wrinkled his nose in displeasure.   
John sat patiently watching but not intruding until Sherlock came fully to his senses.  
‘How were you-?’   
John nodded to the chair in Sherlock’s room, usually covered in books and all kinds of experiments now clear except a crumpled blanket.  
‘All night?’ Sherlock asked.   
‘What was left of it, and all morning. It’s almost 2pm.’ John explained.   
‘Right . Oh. Good. I mean.’  
‘You had concussion, you were badly injured, you refused hospital so as a doctor...’ John trailed off.  
‘Right, well that’s yes, good.’   
‘How are-‘ John stopped himself, sensing no doubt a needless question. ‘Injuries?’ he continued ‘Anything I should know about?’  
Sherlock did another scan of his body. ‘No.’ He concluded. ‘Same as before’   
‘Right. Good.’ John stood. ‘Shower-be careful of those dressings, I’ll change them when I get back-‘  
‘Back?’ Sherlock couldn’t conceal the rising note of panic that crept into his voice.  
‘Mycroft’ John stated, ‘As you asked.’  
Sherlock remembered. ‘Yes’ he said ‘Yes of course, please.’  
‘Mrs Hudson is under instruction not to let you leave. She’s also coming up to feed you. I won’t be long. Is that alright?’  
Sherlock nodded something heavy creeping into his chest.   
John stood and paused as if assessing whether it was safe to leave. Sherlock nodded at him.  
‘Go. The sooner you go...’ he let the sentence remain unfinished, sheepish at the force in his voice, almost like begging.   
John nodded and made to leave but returned bringing a hand to rest on Sherlock’s should. This time he didn’t flinch away and John tightened his grip, strong and reassuring but also as though himself clinging onto something. He released his grip and left without another word.   
Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps descending the seventeen stairs followed by a muffled conversation with Mrs Hudson that he couldn’t make out but was sure involved instructions to feed and contain him. The latter was unlikely to be a problem, he had no desire to move never mind leave the flat.   
He swung his legs onto the floor and sat still while his brain and body realigned themselves. He needed to wash, he felt disgusting, a layer of dirt covered his skin both from the fire and-no. He told his brain, not yet, not now. He’d seen a brief flash of what lay beyond unlocking those memory files and he wasn’t ready, for that he needed strength that the physical beating had left him without.   
Sherlock began to slowly undress, a painful process. His hands reached to the jumper just holding it felt reassuring, he pulled it off and held it in his lap for a few moments before folding it carefully and setting it down on his bed. He wouldn’t put it on again after his shower but he felt better having it close by.   
The shower was hot and warm for once, at least the temperamental plumbing of Baker Street was on his side. He stood for a long moment letting the water simply run over his head letting it wash everything away. The heat was soothing, he let himself close his eyes and tried to concentrate on the water only the water not to think, not to feel not to remember.  
The memories were too strong even for his powerful mind. The moment he closed his eyes he was back here the abandoned warehouse, vast and cold handcuffs tight on his wrists and ankles, a vile taste in his mouth from the filthy gag they placed there. He felt a blow to one side of his face, then the other. Harsh enough to disorient him not enough to knock him out. Again and again and again. He closed his eyes against it and felt cold steel against his cheek. A knife.  
‘Open your eyes freak. I want to see you feel everything.’   
He resisted a second before he felt the blade cut. He opened his eyes, no sense in exacerbating the injuries he was likely to sustain.   
‘Better’ the owner of the voice said, the male. The other, a woman smirked giving her an even more reptilian appearance, scrapped back dirty blonde hair and green slit like eyes darkened by the dim light, probably some Italian heritage Sherlock noted.  
‘Better’ she repeated. ‘You’ve got questions’ she mused. He said you would, my employer. Well Mr Holmes, you might get some if you’re really god. But first I’m going to-‘  
She paused at the question in his eyes. Raised an eyebrow and moved menacingly forward. Sherlock steadied himself against the next blow but none came. She stepped closer again and he felt her hands on his shirt, lifting. He imagined all kinds of torture on his bare skin, burns, whips and beatings. All would come but for now her touch remained menacingly gentle. She released his trousers and slipped a hand inside and a cold realisation dawned on Sherlock, he felt every muscle in his body tighten and begin to shake as she slowly painfully began to work her hand further down.  
‘No!’ he cried and there was a loud bang.   
‘Sherlock?! Sherlock? Are you ok?’ Mrs Hudson’s voice was far off and a pounding accompanied it.  
‘Sherlock.’ She repeated as the bathroom door, her pounding from the other side, came into focus.  
Sherlock came back to himself slowly, breathing heavily.  
‘yes-I-ah’ he scrambled around turning off the now cold water and wrapping himself hastily in a towel before Mrs Hudson came bursting in-the lock hadn’t ever worked and as John rightly pointed out Sherlock had little regard for privacy therefore it remained so.   
‘Oh Sherlock’ clucked Mrs Hudson as he sank heavily down on the edge of the tub dripping steadily into the already substantial puddle on the tiles.  
‘The state of you.’   
The mirror opposite him allowed Sherlock to really see the extent of his injuries for the first time and he was shocked-his face was darkening into a deep shade of purple on the left side with a long gash alongside his hear. His torso was a mixture of greens and purples, he knew his back must look similar. He hung his head energy spent. He felt broken the physical injuries combined with the mental effort expended to keep what happened safely locked away had drained him.  
‘Come on Sherlock love we’ll get you fixed up, I can dress those cuts again. I was a nurse you know before I met Mr Hudson. Should have stayed one and all.’   
Sherlock let his head drop once again in defeat. He was getting used to the feeling and he didn’t like it one bit, in fact it terrified him. He sensed Mrs Hudson move closer to him, saw her pick up the small hand towel he'd left on the floor she placed it on his head and slowly, gently began to rub his hair dry. He felt a lump rise in his chest and she gently caressed his head with the towel gently working the moisture out, wiping down the back of his neck and over his forehead. She gave a final rub through his curls, firm but tender and so thoroughly maternal it made his heart ache and the lump in his chest grow. It had been a long time since anyone had looked after him, since he’d let anyone. Mrs Hudson’s touch didn’t hurt, it was caring and soft and warm he allowed himself to relax letting her continue convinced it was safe to let his guard down.   
In a movement he couldn’t predict, before he could see it her hand want from its soothing caress on his head to a cold touch like icy knives to his shoulder. Off guard he sprang back like a frightened rabbit scrambling to his feet clinging to the towel and crying out. He saw the alarm on her face immediately and registered what he must look like-a wild creature flailing half naked around the room. He felt exposed suddenly conscious of his lack of clothing and he became paralysed. He couldn’t be without clothing, that meant suddenly too many associations and fear flashed through his brain, irrational he knew but the conscious mind still hanging on wouldn’t wipe out the instinct.   
He closed his eyes in a last effort to close that file.  
‘No.’ He said out lout.  
‘It’s ok Sherlock, you’re alright’ Mrs Hudson was moving towards him again. ‘It’s just me. Now why don’t we get you dried off and dressed.   
He backed away again his bare back hitting cold tiles and feeling the hard coldness he cried out again, wild as an animal and felt the last vestige of control slipping away giving way to raw fear. This hadn’t happened in years, not since University when he first learned to really control his mind, to delete files or close them at will.   
Now his mind opened, file after file, image after image overloaded his brain and he screamed in pain. Then nothing.   
The bathroom was still there when he awoke. The tiles were hard against his side but he wasn’t cold. Something warm and heavy covered him. His skin was dry, so was his hair. While then since his last memory.  
‘Sherlock?’  
John. John was there.  
‘Can you hear me?’  
He nodded yes.  
‘Good.’ John’s voice was calm, measured. His doctor voice again. ‘You blacked out. You’ve been unconscious a little while but you’re at home and you’re safe. Ok?’  
Again he felt himself nod.  
‘Are you ready to move?’ John asked, still calm and patient.   
Sherlock considered a moment the nodded slowly and pulled himself into a sitting position.   
‘Ok.’ John moved towards him slowly as one might approach a frightened and dangerous animal. ‘We’ll go into your room and get you dressed alright?’  
Sherlock nodded once more and allowed himself to be helped to his feet, wrapped in towels and led to his room. John handed him his grey pyjamas which he dutifully pulled on.   
‘I think you need something warmer than this.’ John said examining Sherlock’s silk dressing gown.  
Sherlock glanced at the bed and John’s jumper from the night before. He picked it up holding it so John could see throwing him the request with his eyes.   
‘Sure.’ John agreed easily. ‘You need socks too, it’s bloody cold tonight.’   
Sherlock nodded and pulled the jumper over his head, it was ill fitting but he immediately felt warmed by it, dutifully he picked up the offer socks.  
‘I’m going to heat up the food Mrs Hudson brought up.’ John said moving towards the door. ‘No arguments, you need to eat.’  
Sherlock nodded again puzzled by how relaxed John was being, he reasoned he must have slipped into his full Doctor mode, quiet reasoned and detached-not unlike Shelrock on a case. He wondered why he’d never thought of it that way before.   
Sherlock sat heavily on the bed suddenly tired again, his mind had finally passed into a stake of exhausted numbness usually only achieved at the end of a particularly challenging case or through artificial means. He was grateful. He knew in time it would recover enough to start the fight again, but for now he was content to enjoy the rest. He closed his eyes willing himself the strength to move.

‘He was young-a teenager, at boarding school. He was well you know my brother don’t imagine he was ever any other way.’  
John simultaneously grimaced and smiled internally at the image of a young Sherlock Holmes.  
‘There was a group of boys’ Mycroft continued ‘A year older than him, he had humiliated them-as is his wont to do. They teased him, then they took it further. They locked him in the changing rooms one night. They beat him, which he was used to –he fought back quite admirably I heard. But then two of them returned and conducted another kind of assault.   
Mycroft paused, tracing a pattern on the desk in front o him. I’m sure John you appreciate my concern over what happened last night and no doubt his determination to keep me at arm’s length.   
John nodded curtly.  
‘I don’t see what I-‘ he began  
‘What you do best Doctor Watson. Look after him when he fails to look after himself.’ 

Sherlock emerged from his room breaking John’s reverie, and sat at the kitchen table that Mrs Hudson had cleared for them. John flicked on the small kitchen radio and let the gentle noise fill the silence. Sherlock ate obediently when he placed the small plate of pasta in front of him. John guessed the near catatonic survival mode he seemed to have slipped into was making him both pliable to John’s suggestions and his body’s needs. John didn’t speak during the meal except to offer more food and insist Sherlock drink an additional glass of water. He made tea afterwards and quietly suggested television. Again Sherlock complied and John hopped through the channels until he found a nature programme he’d seen before followed by a documentary on Mozart which Sherlock engaged with enough to label ‘pedestrian’ but seemed soothed by the concert that followed, enough that John allowed himself to relax for a few moments.   
By nine John felt his own body taking the hit from the previous day, he stole a glance at Sherlock who was starting unseeingly in the direction of the television which had now given way to another nature programme.   
‘Sherlock’ John’s voice sounded distant, unreal. He was probably imagining things again. He shut it out.   
‘Sherlock’ it came again, this time with a touch to his forearm, gentle at first then tightening reassuringly at his flinch.   
‘Sherlock.’ John said for a third time. ‘Sleep.’  
He opened his mouth to protest but John cut him off.  
‘No. Doctor’s orders. You’re still under my care, your body needs rest. As does mine.’  
Sherlock nodded meekly and John’s heart nearly ripped in two. He was helpless and broken apart, the great man who he admired so much who normally fought him at every turn often just for amusement, was compliant and crumbling before his yes.   
John ushered him to the bedroom and produced more powerful sleeping pills which Sherlock took wordlessly and climbed into bed.  
‘John?’ he asked in a voice so small it physically hurt John to hear. He didn’t need to finish the question , John was already settling into the chair.  
‘I’ll be here.’ He said.  
Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes.   
‘He is a complex creature’ Mycroft mused ‘His mind is almost always impossible to fathom-except for me naturally.’  
‘Naturally’ John muttered.  
‘That is not to say that he doesn’t have the same response to extreme trauma as you or I.’ Mycroft continued ‘Well I perhaps, not having had your.’ He paused ‘Military expertise.’  
‘And that he’s your brother.’   
‘Quite.’  
‘What exactly should I expect?’ John asked, patience growing thin anxious to get back to the other Holmes brother, where he might actually be useful.  
‘That, like everything else where my brother is concerned is impossible to predict.’ Mycroft mused.   
‘Well thank you, that’s useful’ John said getting to his feet.   
‘That is to say, Doctor Watson whatever it is I fear only you can actually be of assistance. Do your best wont you?’

Sherlock woke with a scream so loud he wasn’t sure if it was the dream or his shout that woke him. Bolt upright in bed he felt his body begin to shake, he thrashed angrily at the sheets breath catching in his chest until a pair of firm hands fixed themselves on his shoulder and stilled him. John.  
‘Alright. You’re alright. You’re home. It’s all fine alright?’ he seemed to be trying to reassure himself as much as Sherlock.  
He nodded, breathed out slowly and nodded allowing himself to flop back against the wall.  
‘Tea’ John announced. ‘Nothing else to do in response to a nightmare like that.’  
Through the haze in his brain Sherlock recognised that John of all people knew that to be true, he watched him shuffle off to the kitchen while he swung himself fully upright and took a few moments to summon the strength to move again. He dragged himself to the kitchen and folded himself into a chair behind John who had busied himself with tea. Sherlock began to shiver slightly, he willed his body to still not wanting John to see to betray himself again.  
John placed two mugs on the table and sat opposite, unspeaking and unmoving patient as ever. Sherlock reached out for the mug glad of the warmth it would offer, seeing his hands tremble slightly as the moved he gripped the mug firmly in an attempt to quell the convulsions.   
The mug juddered dangerously in his hands, lightening quick before any damage was done John’s hands reached out and wrapped around Sherlock’s and the mug guiding both back to the table. He didn’t let go. Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s about to speak as John flicked his own gaze to the mug, his hands unmoving he held on a fraction tighter and looking up again he locked Sherlock’s eyes with his own.  
‘Tell me’ he said.   
In that moment Sherlock lost all resistance. He spoke fully for the fist time since the night before the words spilling from him every detail of the ordeal, what they did, how and most terrifyingly how he felt. His eyes darted from the table to the floor to John’s eyes but most often anchored on mug of tea between their hands.   
When he finished the tea was cold but John’s hands were warm on his. He felt a tremor against his hands-John’s had begun to shake, not the intermittent tremor that still sometimes troubled him but something that was taking over his whole body. He drew back his hands and clenched his fists on the table. Sherlock realised he was angry, no not angry furious.   
‘John?’ he asked  
‘How could they?’ he managed, his knuckles turning white.  
‘What?’ Sherlock frowned.  
‘How could a person do that to another-and to you I mean –did they-I know’ he didn’t finished because in that moment Sherlock saw, blind rage took over; John’s arms went flying out sending both cups crashing to the floor. Angry with himself for loss of control he flew to his feet kicking over the chair with him.   
‘John’ Sherlock tried, getting to his feet  
‘How-why-how dare.’ Words spilled out in an incoherent babble as he paced and hit out at things finally settling on a punch square in the bathroom door.   
‘John!’ Sherlock exclaimed rising to meet his arm pulling it back from another hit. Sherlock grabbed John’s arm mid-swing and halted him, the force sending them both stumbling, grabbing at each other to stay upright.   
Sherlock took the opportunity to take John’s head in his hands and force his gaze up into his own.   
‘John. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m alright.’  
‘No.’ John choked out voice still tight with anger.  
A battle raged behind John’s eyes for long moments before he spoke.   
‘You’re not alright.’  
Sherlock gripped tighter. ‘No.’ He conceded closing his eyes. ‘I am not alright, Ok John? I am physically and emotionally damaged by this ordeal and yes by the resulting memories no doubt my brother had told you about but-‘ he opened his yes and looked at John. ‘I will recover.;  
John stared at him for a long time, searching the fathomless grey of Sherlock’s eyes finally, slowly he nodded.   
Sherlock exhaled and let his head drop his forehead coming to rest on John’s.  
‘Do you hear me John Watson. I am alive, you are alive and we will both be alright.’


End file.
